Filling in the Blanks: It was a Sunday
by sidlerocks
Summary: How Sara and Grissom finally got together
1. Author's note

10-06-2008

I'm currently reading a really fabulous WIP—Helen Pattskyn's _Torchwood _story "Forget Me Not" (/s/4567675/1/ForgetNotMe). It's everything I usually avoid in fan fiction, AU, set WAY in the future, brutal, sad, but it's incredibly well written, touching and gripping. (You do need to be familiar with _Torchwood_ and there are references to things from her previous stories, so there's a lot to read before you get to this tale, but believe me, it's worth the effort. And maybe by the time you read the rest of her stuff, this story will be finished so unlike me, you won't have to be obsessively checking your e-mail to see if there's a new chapter posted.) It was published a week ago and has (as of this moment) 51 reviews, almost all begging for her to write quickly.

Now, I've written four stories, and between them, they've gotten more than 23,000 hits. And a total of 37 reviews, many of them from the same wonderful reviewers. It occurs to me that as I post the stories as complete tales and don't beg for reviews, that there's not much incentive to comment. It would kind of be nice to know if I'm just spinning my wheels, though. I mean, I figure by the time you've slogged through somewhere between seven and 30,000 words, you must have an opinion. Mind letting me know whether you've enjoyed the stories or feel like you just wasted your time? Worth writing more?

Oh, and if you're a Torchwood /Janto fan, even if, like me, AU and crossovers are not your thing, check out Helen Pattskyn. I think you'll be glad you did.

BTW, if you've already ready my stories, I haven't updated the stories themselves, just added comments and made some formatting changes, so don't work too hard looking for the changes.


	2. Filling in the Blanks Timeline

_**Filling in the Blanks**_

**Season 5**

_Project Sidle_

Set during Spark of Life through Committed

(518-521)

**Season 6**

_It Was a Sunday_

Set during A Bullet Runs Through It

(607-608)

_Mélange: Beyond this Point There be Werewolves_

Set between Still Life and Werewolves

(610-611)

**Season 7**

_I'll See You Later_

Set during Law of Gravity

(715-716)


	3. Chapter 1

**Filling in the Blanks**

"**It was a Sunday"**

Author's comments 

_This little tale is set primarily between "Committed" and "A Bullet Runs Through It" but as is always the case with my stories, be prepared for spoilers/foreshadowing for any episode between "Cool Change" and "Goodbye and Good Luck". For me, CSI _**is**_ Sara's story and ends with her departure._

_As for disclaimers, if anyone really thinks the studio attorneys are going to go after fan fic writers, well, unless you're writing fan fic about Bill O'Reilly (and who the hell would?) no one else is QUITE that petty. Or bored. Even during a strike. Still, to make everyone happy, here are my disclaimers: I have been involved in several scripted dramas. I'm not involved in this one. If I were, you'd be seeing my input on the screen, not on a fan fic website. And Doc Robbins (and everyone else, for that matter) certainly wouldn't make such stupidly inaccurate declarations about what he can tell about sexual assault victims based on their exams. Plus Hodges wouldn't mispronounce "ELISA" or, for that matter, "Amherst". (Really, how hard is it to learn to pronounce "Amherst" correctly?!? The "H" is SILENT, people!) Ah, well. In any case, I have no rights to these characters, situations or the dialogue I've incorporated into the stories. But I also have no profit motive and do nothing beyond, hopefully, increasing people's interest in the actually production. And for those who think that if we owned the rights to all of this, we'd be living high on the hog, not that there isn't a huge amount of money involved, but the reality is that the people who make this stuff work REALLY hard. Hundreds of people. It's no wonder that Billy and Jorja wanted to take breaks. Which doesn't mean I'm happy about it, although I have slowly come to believe that it really was Jorja's decision to leave, so I guess I have to support it... _

_Anyhow, hope you enjoy. As with all my stories, this is posted as a complete work, _**not a WIP**_. No point in registering for Story Alerts—there won't be more (unless I realize that I really screwed something up and go back to fix it). If you like it, maybe do an Author Alert instead. I play in the garden of canon and these tales are set in the middle of story lines you already know. I don't need to tell you what happens next—you've already seen it._

_I'm rating this one M to be safe because it does have a few adult moments, but unlike "I'll See You Later" it's a really soft M. 'Doubt anyone is going to be offended, but it's really not appropriate for you if you're twelve or thirteen._

_Here's hoping the WGA strike is settled this weekend. David Rambo is on record as saying that a resolution by mid-February would probably be early enough for us to get at least a bit more this season. Plus the crews really need to be able to pay their bills…_

Chapter 1 

November 12th, 2005 09:57

Las Vegas Crime Scene Investigator Sara Sidle strode into her supervisor's office, saying "Hey, Grissom, I have a question," and stopped dead. Detective Sofia Curtis stood in front of Entomologist and Graveyard Shift Supervisor Dr. Gilbert Grissom's desk, and while perhaps no one else would have, Sara recognized the look of panic on her boss—and lover's—face. Sofia had worked with them as a crime scene investigator and Sara knew she considered Grissom a friend, as well as a "person of interest" socially, but she had also been involved in a shoot-out the crime lab was investigating, and until the investigation was closed, she was persona non grata.

Nine months earlier, Sara might have found Sofia's presence threatening, or at least hurtful, as she had when Grissom had taken Sofia to dinner before the detective left the crime lab. However, the last nine months had been eventful ones in her relationship, and she no longer had significant doubts about the place she occupied in Grissom's life.

If Sara did remain a little insecure and sensitive, it was because he'd hurt her before and her childhood experiences hadn't exactly prepared her to expect stable supportive relationships, but she recognized that her worries were mostly not Grissom's fault. She might not be able to believe that Grissom would always be with her, but she understood that Sofia posed no threat. Still, it didn't mean either that she didn't feel for the detective, or that she wasn't going to establish boundaries where Grissom was concerned.

"Sofia? You're on administrative leave," Sara greeted her.

"I know."

"You should not be in this building."

"I was just talking to a friend. If I can't talk to a friend, who the hell am I supposed to talk to?"

"Any friend outside the department."

"And how many friends outside of work do you have, Sara? Maybe I should go talk to my mother. Oh, no, sorry. I forgot. She's a cop, too."

"I can recommend a departmental psychologist." Only Grissom could know what the free admission that she had been in counseling cost Sara. She did not reveal personal information easily.

"All right, then." Sofia looked back at Grissom. "This was a really bad idea. I'm sorry." She turned and left the office. Sara turned the opposite direction and looked at Grissom. He shrugged at her, and not for the first time she shook her head at his inability to say 'no' – at least to anyone except her. Not that he was saying 'no' to her now, but he had for more than four years after she had moved to Las Vegas. Of course, it had taken her nearly a year after he asked her to come to town to realize that he WAS saying 'no', but she blamed only herself for that.

"Gris…"

"Sara, I told her she needed to leave…" She sighed. Of course he had. It was enforcing his request that would have been nearly impossible for him.

"I know you did. Don't worry about it. I was just coming by to see if you wanted to get breakfast whenever we finally get out of here. The guys are going, and…"

"Would you mind if we just went home? All I really want to do is throw a ball for Hank and then crawl into bed with you."

Momentarily, Sara indulged in the fantasy of being home with Grissom and their dog, work left behind for at least a few hours. That world behind their closed front door was the only real family she'd ever had, and at moments like this she yearned for the safe feeling only that warm cocoon could provide.

"Okay. I'll make an excuse."

He felt instantly guilty. Was he keeping Sara from spending time with her friends? He knew she wasn't seeing as much of the guys outside of work as she had before he'd embarked on winning back her friendship two years earlier, a campaign he'd privately labeled "Project Sidle".

"You can go, if you want. Or I could go with you…"

"Grissom, I can't think of anything I'd rather do than go home with you and Hank." She smiled at him ruefully. "But something tells me we aren't going anywhere anytime soon."

Grissom sighed. "Yeah. Wishful thinking. At this point we're probably talking about breakfast tomorrow. Or the day after. We've got to find the bullet that killed Bell. You need to head out to the scene in a few minutes—I won't be long behind you. But I think we have time to get a cup of coffee. When was the last time you even sat down?'

"Probably an hour or two after the last time you did."

The previous April, Grissom's life had come together in a way that he had barely dare wish for. His relationship with Sara had finally achieved the status for which he had yearned for seven years, but only allowed himself to indulge in hoping for over the past two. She was his lover, his friend, his soul mate. But as satisfying as his personal life had become, the raw wound caused by his team being ripped apart by Lab Supervisor Conrad Ecklie in a fit of pique had never healed, had never really stopped bleeding.

The agony had reached its pinnacle when Investigator Nick Stokes, a former member of Grissom's gutted team, had been kidnapped and buried alive inside an ant mound the previous May. For two endless days the entire Crime Lab had come together to work one single case. They had saved Nick, but only just.

"I want my guys back." Grissom had said to Ecklie without looking at him. They were standing side by side at Flora Nevada Nursery, moments after Nick had been catapulted out of an exploding Plexiglas coffin. And Ecklie had admitted defeat.

Catherine Willows, swing shift supervisor, was offered the option of remaining in that administrative position but chose instead to return with the rest of her team to the graveyard shift. She ended up giving up her private office for one shared with the day shift supervisor (and her duck collection) and taking over a chunk of Grissom's administrative duties. So Catherine, Nick, and Nick's best friend Warrick Brown had rejoined Sara, junior investigator Greg Sanders and himself on nights. And if Nick was a little jumpy about Grissom's beloved insects or closed spaces, it was only to be expected.


	4. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

Grissom followed Sara to the scene of the shoot out, armed with information from trace evidence expert David Hodges, an idea, and a ladder. The scene was a disaster still—masses of investigators and deputies pulling hundreds of bullets from pocked and riddled cement block walls and window shutters, carefully labeling and packaging each one. Shattered glass littered the ground. He found Sara in the back of one of the lab's SUVs, studying a diagram of the scene.

"Sara, will you come with me to the east alley, please?"

"I thought my top priority, as per the under sheriff, was finding the bullet that went through Bell."

"Well, this is per me. Come on. It'll be fun." As if he had to convince her.

"Okay." Putting down her clipboard, she followed him east across the street.

And despite the seriousness of the situation, it was fun – especially when, an hour later, Grissom called on her to replace Hodges as stand-in for the shooter. They had gathered an audience of the concerned parties to explain how the apparently contradictory observations of witnesses and the officers involved in the police shooting of Ricardo Estevez could both be true. Detective Nestor Ortega, investigating the shooting, Capt. Jim Brass who witnessed it, and Sergeant Brennan Carroll, who had fired the fatal bullets, stood in a casual half-circle facing Grissom.

"Hodges, stand over here."

"Yes, sir."

"Right here. See that roof?"

"It's red clay."

"Toss one of the guns up there."

"Actually they're Bobby Dawson's guns. He made me sign for them. I'm sure he wouldn't appreciate getting them back damaged."

Briefly Grissom reconsidered the answer he'd given Greg earlier in the day when he told him that Hodges didn't annoy him any more than anyone else around the lab.

"Technically they're my guns, so toss one up there."

Hodges unzipped the waist pack that held the two exemplar guns lab ballistics expert Bobby Dawson had provided him at Sara's request.

"Just for the record, I've never really been good at sports…"

Grissom looked up, his clear gaze focusing sharply on his best investigator. Unlike Hodges, she was an athlete. And more than that, she was always both competent and game.

"Sara." He didn't need to voice any more of his request.

"Yeah." She moved smoothly across the alley, taking the gun and replacing Hodges at Grissom's side.

She'd figured out his theory earlier, even without knowing what evidence Hodges had found AND without seeing what Grissom had discovered when he climbed the ladder. She had confirmed her suspicion by climbing the ladder herself after she'd called Hodges and asked him to bring two .45s and meet them in the alley.

With little hesitation, she flipped the gun up onto the roof where it slid partway down and then stuck.

Detective Ortega asked, "How does that prove the guy tossed the gun up there? You recovered it from the ground."

Grissom explained what he'd found when he'd used the ladder. "There's a cracked tile up on the roof. I found a series of scratches stretching from the cracked tile to the end of the roof."

Hodges added, "I found scratches and red clay dust in the suspect's five."

Grissom continued. "It explains how the witnesses could see Estevez with his hands up, and Sergeant Carroll then saw him with a gun in his hand."

Ortega countered, "The gun's still up there."

"Sara..." Again Grissom needed say no more. Hodges handed Grissom the second gun. He passed it on to Sara.

"Try it again." Sara flipped it up on the roof, after the first one. This time the gun slid all the way down, flying off of the roof and back into Sara's hands. Brass and Carroll, who had both seen the gun in the hands of the now-dead suspect, sighed in relief. Grissom gave the slightest hint of a satisfied smile.

"There you have it."

Sara followed Hodges back to the lab with the evidence she'd collected prior to his wild roof-tile chase. She was almost feeling sorry for him as she listened to Bobby chew him out for the condition of the guns upon their return when Hodges found blood on a bullet she'd recovered right after the shooting. Suddenly the fun was sucked out of the afternoon as the reality of the case came crashing back. She sought out Grissom to let him know. Sara found him with Nick in the lab garage where he'd been bantering about hubcaps, and saw the same desolation she felt reflected in his eyes when she shared her news. DNA analyst Wendy Simms still needed to confirm that the blood was Daniel Bell's, but they all knew: this was the killer bullet.

Both Sara and Grissom dealt with the violence and tragedy they saw every day by focusing on the science, the puzzles. Maybe they couldn't stop bad stuff from happening, but they could provide those left behind with a lot of answers. Unlike at most labs, the Las Vegas investigators actually did have a fair amount of contact with the survivors—interviewing and investigating them—but they still were generally able to maintain a distance. This case was different, investigating the death of one of their own, a death caused by a bullet fired by another cop. Sara considered Sofia, who had worked as a crime scene investigator, but now sought her own answers carrying a gun instead of an evidence kit, and as a result found herself embroiled in the middle of this disaster. A cop's job differs from an investigator's in many ways, not the least of which is that investigators always arrive in the aftermath of tragedies. Police officers, including, sometimes, detectives, often find themselves in the heat of the action.

Drooping with exhaustion, she and Warrick found a minute to take a break and grab a bite. Sitting down to finally eat the lunch she'd packed so very long ago, Sara thought back to Grissom's revelations earlier when she'd returned to his office with the two cups of coffee she'd offered to fetch and had joined him on his office couch.

"Greg broke out his special stash for this pot." Greg Sanders was well known as a connoisseur of fine coffee, but generally hoarded his expensive beans.

"One piece of good news in a long, long day." He paused, sipped appreciatively, then continued in a lower tone, a conversation between lovers, confidants, off the record. "Sofia thinks she shot Bell."

"I figured."

"If she's right, it could end her career."

"I couldn't do what they do—cops. Put my life on the line every single day. Go to work knowing that someone might point a gun at me before my lunch break."

"You would be good at anything Sara. But I understand what you mean. It's not how I'd choose to live either. Plenty of excitement in my life as it is." He met her eye and raised an eyebrow suggestively. She grinned at him.

"Good to know."

He smiled back briefly at her, then sighed.

"She's a good cop, Sara. A good person."

He glanced at the hallway, before briefly running a finger down her arm.

"I know she is, Gil. She may not be crazy about me, but I've worked with her. I know she's good at her job, and has been a good friend to you. She definitely had integrity when our butts were on the line, even though it cost her the supervisor's position. It's hardly her fault that we both fell for the same guy, and he goes home in the morning with me; I can afford to be magnanimous. And I certainly can't blame her for trying. The woman has good taste."

"I still think you're hallucinating when you say Sofia was interested in me as anything other than a co-worker, but thank you for the rest of that, I think."

"I'm going to hold you to ball with Hank, breakfast and bed when we finally get through with all of this."

"Just try and get out of it, Sidle." His eyes crinkled with his smile.

"That thought will keep me going. Thanks."

"Me too, Sara. That, and Greg's private stash."


	5. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

Sofia Curtis sat in a window booth at a diner near police headquarters. Even now she found herself incapable of finding a place not frequented by cops. She stared blindly out the window. She had once thought that Ecklie's transfer of her from Acting Swing Supervisor to Investigator on graveyards would be the low point in her life, both personally and professionally. The undeserved demotion was bad enough, but moving into the well-oiled teamwork of a long established crew, feeling that she had to prove herself all over again, not being trusted to do her job, that had been terrible. In comparison to now, however, it felt like Christmas morning.

"Hey." Jim Brass slid into the booth across from her. "I'm glad you called. I've been thinking about you."

"Good. Yeah, I wasn't sure."

"How you doing?"

She could tell from his expression that he truly was concerned, he did care. There was none of the reluctance to meet with her she had felt when she tried to talk to Grissom, even before Sara's arrival.

"I've gone a little crazy."

"Yeah. It's the waiting."

Sitting, talking to Brass, hearing his description of previous investigations he'd endured, Sofia felt the tight bands around her chest begin to loosen. She wasn't entirely alone. Jim was going through this with her. She let the warmth of his gravely voice wash over her, and started to relax for the first time in days. Even seeing footage of the aftermath of the shooting on a TV on the wall didn't take away from the relief his advice brought. Until two patrol officers walked into the diner. They were talking, and Sofia KNEW that she and Brass were their topic of conversation. As they left, one turned and looked pointedly at her.

"I'm always going to be the cop who shot a cop."

Brass continued gazing at his young colleague, trying to think what to say to make it easier for her. He'd gotten to know his fellow detective fairly well, first by working with her as a CSI, and more recently being teamed up with her. He was impressed with her professionally and liked her personally, and if his interest went further than that when he was lying in a cold bed alone at night, well, Sofia would never need to know that. But there was another topic he felt obligated to raise.

"Hey, Sofia, I heard you got into it a little with Sara this morning."

Sofia's anger boiled to the top.

"What, it's not enough she drives me out of CSI, she has to—"

"Whoa. I didn't hear it from Sara, and I guarantee you no one ever will. From Grissom either. But the door was open and there's a lot of traffic in that corridor, a corridor filled with trained investigators. And Sara was right. You shouldn't have been there, 'Fia."

"So I've been told. All I wanted was a chance to talk to Grissom for a few minutes."

Brass paused, deciding how much to say to Sofia.

"But you put him in a compromising position. I know you think of him as a friend. So do I. I know he likes and respects you. But I think perhaps you've thought it could become more than that, and I need to tell you, partner, it's not going to. I'd never presume to guess exactly what goes on between Gil and Sara, but I can tell you that there was a connection between them before he ever brought her in from San Francisco."

"Are you saying that Sara and Grissom are involved? "

"I'm saying I don't know what their relationship is," Brass stretched the truth a little, as he thought he had a pretty good idea what was going on between his friends, and was amused by how oblivious the rest of the crime lab team appeared to be.

"But whatever it is," he continued, "trying to get between them is just going to get you hurt. And I don't want to see that happen."

Sofia felt the cold knot in her stomach tighten. She'd thought she couldn't feel any more alone, but now she did. Tears pooled in her eyes. Brass reached out a hand and laid it over hers.

"Hey," he said, smiling. "You've still got friends."


	6. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

It was evening by the time the investigative team headed back out to the crime scene to set up a reconstruction. The team had been up for nearly two days and Sara could see Grissom's shoulders sagging with the same fatigue that made her bones ache. They maneuvered the cars and principals into position and then waited for dark so they could use lasers to track the course of bullets. Greg and Nick went off in search of food, while Grissom and Sara headed for their SUV which was parked off to the side, away from virtually all of the ongoing activity on the street. Without discussion, they climbed into the vehicle and pushed both front seats back into a semi-reclining position.

"Great minds…" Grissom muttered through a yawn.

"I brought a thermos of Greg's coffee for when we wake up."

"What did I ever do to deserve you, Harvard?"

Sara's warm eyes met his. "Who says you do?"

It was dark in the car, the combination of twilight and tinted windows rendering an air of privacy to the compartment and Grissom surprised Sara by boldly reaching out and taking her hand. He leaned back, eyes closed.

"Just for a minute, Sara, while I'm dozing off…"

She stifled a yawn.

"You get no complaint from me, General," she said with a smile in her voice. Grissom wondered briefly at the title but was pulled under by his utter exhaustion before he could formulate the words to ask about it. Sara followed him into sleep almost immediately.

Greg and Nick returned from their Quiznos run with sandwiches in hand for their colleagues.

"Where do you think they went, G?"

Greg cast his eyes about the area, putting himself in his very tired friends' place.

"I'll bet they headed to the Yukon for a nap. Give me their sandwich bag and I'll go see if they're awake."

"Okay but don't expect me to wait to eat until you get back."

"Go for it Nicky, just keep your paws off of my Black Angus steak sandwich." And when he returned a few minutes later with the news that the other half of their team was sound asleep, Nick was too engrossed in scarfing down his sub to notice the hint of a satisfied smile playing around Greg's lips.

"_Way to go, guys. 'Bout god damned time…"_ he thought to himself. _"'Bout time."_ So maybe he'd once had a HUGE crush on Sara—what's not to adore, right?—but he'd accepted long ago that there was only room for one man in her heart. Over the years, a close and deep friendship had grown between Greg and Sara.

He thought back to the conversation he'd had with her after attending his first autopsy more than a year earlier. She'd been truly interested and incredibly supportive. It was probably at that point that Sara had fully shifted from object of fantasy to mentor. More than anything else, he wanted her to be happy. She'd seemed more at ease recently; now he knew why. And no matter how much he generally enjoyed showing off when he had inside knowledge, those tightly clasped hands he'd seen between his friends, sleeping soundly, facing each other in the car, was one secret he would take to his grave.


	7. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

Sara and Grissom's relationship had taken its last giant step forward the previous April, following the investigation of a patient death in a locked ward at the state mental hospital. It was a case that brought back a lot of memories for Sara. Grissom first became aware of her discomfort shortly after their arrival at the facility when she was asked to remove her uniform vest prior to entering the ward at Desert State. She looked unusually vulnerable—beautiful but vulnerable—to him in her slacks and shirt, without any emblem of the job. She was, of course, as professional and observant as ever, but a hint of her discomfort lingered. With the patients restricted to the unit dayroom, Grissom set Sara to processing victim Robert Garson's room while he and Jim Brass conducted interviews. Not that he doubted her ability to handle herself, but something had her off kilter, and from his perspective, the further he could keep Sara from psychotic murder-rapists, the better.

Later, entering the dayroom together with Sara to obtain cheek swabs for DNA, Grissom quickly surveyed the room, making a best guess as to who would cause the most problem, taking that side of the room himself.

"I'll take Jiminey Cricket." But the elderly inmate sitting quietly on Sara's side had been one of Brass' interviewees and Grissom hadn't seen his file. Not that anyone's files were exactly reassuring. He kept half an ear on Sara as she worked.

"Open your mouth, please. Would you open your mouth, sir?" Grissom was writing in his notebook. Hearing Sara call his name made him lift his head.

"Grissom?" He looked at her. "You take this one." Only later did he learn how close she had come to being bitten.

Back at the lab, Grissom caught up with Doc Robbins and Garson's autopsy findings. Peri-mortem ligature marks on his wrists and ankles raised new questions regarding the last few hours of Robbie's life. And Sara studied the blood toxicology analysis Hodges brought her. It was positive only for olanzapine and ibuprofen.

"His chart indicated at least four other anti-psychotics. Why wasn't he getting those meds?"

Hodges shrugged. "Do I look clairvoyant?"

Jim Brass caught up with Grissom in the corridor.

"News flash from the loony bin. Two reported deaths in the last three years from 'complications due to restraint procedures.'"

"And how many have gone unreported?" Grissom mused.

"The hospital just got off probation. One more death by restraint brings the feds in."

"Good incentive to keep it quiet."

"Or make it look like someone else did it."

"Yeah. Somebody who's crazy."

"Sara found some inconsistencies too. Take her back with you, but Jim, do me a favor?"

"Sure, Gil. What's up?"

"Nothing. Just—stay close to Sara, would you?"

"You bet."

Sofia, still a member of the crime lab team at the time, had been off when they started investigating the Desert State murder case. Following her demotion by Lab Director Conrad Ecklie after she backed Grissom in the political struggle that had resulted in the severing of the night shift team, Sofia was determined to leave the crime lab and get back to her intended career as a police detective. Grissom knew that in the absence of an available position at LVPD, she was interviewing with some of the regional departments—and never had he been so glad to have her cut out of the mix. He wasn't entirely sure he understood why, but Sara and Sofia could be a somewhat volatile combination, and with Sara already uneasy, he didn't want her facing any extraneous stressors, so he, Brass and Sara continued to pursue the case, assisted in the lab by Greg and the Lab Rats. Sofia'd be back on duty Saturday night to help out, if they were still working this case.

Grissom called Sara after getting DNA tech Mia Dickerson's report on Garson's bedding. She was outside the hospital, having just tracked down Unit Nurse Joanne McKay in the smoking area.

"Sidle."

"We've got the DNA results back on the semen from Robbie's sheets. Patient Adam Trent—the nail biter."

"Okay."

"Hey, Sara? I'll be there in fifteen minutes. Wait for me before you go back on the unit, would you?"

"Sure, boss. See you in fifteen."

She met him in the lobby and they proceeded to the floor. Once in Trent's room, they stood together looking at his meticulous artwork, fanciful trees, cats and saxophones transformed into objects of horror and violence.

"This stuff is dark," Grissom commented.

"Yeah. Of course, I wouldn't expect Winnie the Pooh."

"Adam's subconscious was working overtime."

"I'll bet you aced your Rorschachs." She smiled at him then continued, "When I was in fifth grade, I drew a picture of a harpooned whale. Everyone thought I was gonzo, but I had just read Moby Dick. Sometimes a dying whale is just a dying whale."

For a moment Grissom indulged in imagining the lonely, serious fifth grader he knew Sara had been, a fifth grader capable of not only reading but also understanding Moby Dick, yet still a child drawing pictures of the stories she had read. Idly he wondered whether it had been a teacher, foster parent or social worker who had worried the drawing of a whale slaughter meant they had a budding psychopath on their hands. Alone in the hall, he reached out and gave Sara's shoulder a brief squeeze as they went back to work.

In the end, it was sheer stupidity, a thoughtless moment, the result, likely, of getting too comfortable in a dangerous setting, like zoo keepers who lose limbs to cats and bears by walking too close to the bars separating them from the wild animals they work with every day; that and their shared single-minded pursuit of the case, which had nearly cost Sara her life. They were examining the nurses' station and came across locked drawers. Grissom left her momentarily in search of a key, such a little thing, but as they knew too well, most often it's those inconsequential little decisions which are the tipping points for two possible futures.

Grissom returned to find the door to the glassed in room locked against him, and Sara held tight in mental patient Adam Trent's grip, a blade to her throat.

"Open the door. Just open it. Please open," he implored the staff member he'd brought back with him. Standing at the glass, helpless, he glued his eyes to Sara's, allowing everything he was feeling to shine through. Much, perhaps even most of Grissom and Sara's communication with each other took place non-verbally. Their colleagues took the "geek mind meld" for granted. Most strangers didn't notice. But Adam Trent's hyperawareness of it had been unnerving to Sara, even in their earlier questioning of him. Now he honed in on it again.

"Do not look at him. Keep your eyes on the floor." Adam was speaking rapidly, agitated, manic. Sara's gaze never wavered from Grissom's. And then Joanna McKay was against the glass, yelling at Adam, drawing his attention. Sara broke away from Trent, and her attacker turned his blade on himself, slitting his own jugular. Sara opened the door and fled.

Grissom cursed his indecision even as Sara barreled out of the nurses' station and stormed down to the end of the corridor. He stood indecisively, equidistant between a seriously bleeding mental patient and the woman he loved, wishing he were a man who could dash after Sara and pull her into the safety of his arms, wishing he knew whether she would welcome such an embrace. In the end, he did follow her, stopping when he was standing close, not touching her.

"When my father died," Sara told him, "my mother came to a place like this for awhile for evaluation. It looked the same; it smelled the same. It smelled like lies." Grissom ached for the little girl who had seen her abusive father murdered by her mother.

"Are you sure you're all right?"

"Crazy people do make me feel crazy."

"If you want, I can have somebody take your place."

"I appreciate that. I do. I really do. But I kind of made a decision to move beyond that, and I really want to finish this case."

As always, Sara's ability to bounce back, to re-erect her psychological armor astounded Grissom. Their moment of privacy ended abruptly as Nurse McKay barged in on their conversation, and in the blink of an eye his vulnerable and hurting friend had disappeared and Sara-the-pit-bull was back.

"We have rules for a reason!" McKay charged down the hall towards the pair by the window.

Grissom turned to face the rapidly approaching woman and stood, as he did so often, with Sara close at his shoulder. Even in situations like this one in which he couldn't actually touch Sara, the intimacy of her physical proximity brought him a large degree of comfort.

"You people come in here disrupting things. You're unsafe. This is your fault."

Incredulous at the attack from a nurse who evidence suggested was having sex with one of her patients, Grissom raised an eyebrow.

"Really?"

But Sara went for the jugular.

"You seem to take your job rather personally."

"What are you suggesting?"

"That you had an intimate relationship with Adam Trent."

"That's ridiculous."

"Your lipstick is on his underwear."

"I gave Robbie my lipstick sometimes. Maybe he was wearing it when the whole thing…

Grissom spoke up.

"We didn't find any on his lips."

"Well, that's your problem," McKay retorted, then turned and stormed back down the hallway. Grissom and Sara stood silently and watched her go.

As hard as it was for Sara to reveal personal information, opening up to Grissom always seemed to ground her, to have a stabilizing effect. Afraid Sara might still be on edge from the attack, Grissom felt his shoulders tense later that day when Sofia launched into a pedantic and condescending explanation of "acoustic archeology", but Sara responded professionally and patiently, despite the fact he was quite sure she had more than a passing familiarity with the history of the development of the phonograph. He'd stopped trying to figure out WHY Sofia persisted in her low-level provocations of Sara and simply settled for being aware of it the day Sofia had informed him of her intent to return to police work. And for appreciating that Sara so rarely rose to the bait.

The sounds they recovered from Adam's turned pot would never stand up in court, but it did provide one final clue they'd been missing, information which was confirmed by comparing McKay's DNA to Adam Trent's. The nurse was his mother.


	8. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

Grissom observed Sara and Brass' interview of McKay from behind the one-way glass. What does it say about our system of dealing with the criminally insane, he wondered, that the most disturbed person in this case had been hired as one of their caretakers? McKay's fully consummated long-standing incestuous relationship with her son Adam had led her to murder Robbie Garson out of jealousy, to get Adam to help her cover up the case, and to attempt to frame Kenny Valdez for the murder. Grissom was open to many kinds of relationships between people, but even in his philosophy there were some lines that just shouldn't be crossed.

When the interview concluded, Sara slipped out to join him.

"Well, jail or no jail, I doubt she'll last six months," Grissom predicted. "She'll die without her son." Sara responded wearily. "That would be better for both of them." Grissom left the viewing room, then thought better of it and stepped back in. Sara hadn't moved, but still stood looking sadly into the interview room, contemplating her lack of relationship with her own mother, concluding that it was probably a good thing.

"Sara? Can I take you home? Will you go home with me?" She looked at him curiously. It was early Sunday morning. She hadn't really given it any real thought, but had assumed she'd be seeing him later, either at her place or his as had been their routine for the last several months. It had been a long time since they'd made explicit plans, since he'd had to ask.

"Sure, I guess. What's up?"

"I just—want to be with you."

"When should I come over?"

"No—I—do you think we could leave your car here this once? I'd—I'd like to drive you home."

"Gris? I'm okay, really."

"No, it's not—I know you are. I just—it's something I'd like to do, for me, if it's okay with you, Sara."

"Okay," she acquiesced, an expression of puzzlement still on her face.

"So, Gris, have you ever heard the joke about the cop and the monkey who went into a bar?" Sara asked once settled into his passenger seat, slumped, exhaustion radiating from her. Still unsure what was so different about this morning, she'd decided to redirect the conversation, to break the tension.

"Tell me."

"Okay. It's a hot August day in Vegas, and this cop walks into a bar with a monkey. The bartender says, 'Hey, we don't allow animals. You'll have to take your monkey out of here.' And the cop says, 'This isn't an animal, he's the only surviving witness to a horrible traffic accident with fatalities that just happened down the street, and it's 120 degrees outside, so I need a comfortable place to question him. We won't be here long.' So the bartender says, 'Well, okay, as long as it's official business and then you're on your way,' and he indicates a table.

The cop takes the monkey over to the table, sits down with him, and asks, 'You can understand what I'm saying?' The monkey nods vigorously.

'Well, did you see the accident?'

'Yes', motions the monkey.

'What happened?' asks the officer. The monkey pretends to have a can in his hand and turns it up by his mouth.

'They were drinking?' asked the officer.

'Yes,' the monkey nods,

'What else?' The monkey pinches his fingers together and holds them to his mouth.

'They were smoking marijuana?'

'Yes.'

'What else?' The monkey motions 'sex.'

'They were screwing, too?' asks the astounded officer.

'Yes.'

'Now wait, you're saying your owners were drinking, smoking and screwing before they crashed?'

'Yes.'

'And what about you? Were you drinking?'

'No.'

'Were you smoking weed?'

'No.'

'Were you screwing?'

The monkey indicates, 'No, wasn't in the mood'.

'So what were you doing during all this?'

'Driving' motions the monkey."

Grissom laughed softly and made a mental note to share the joke with Catherine. Satisfied that she'd been able to elicit a chuckle, Sara sat back and rode quietly the rest of the way home.

"You hungry? Can I get you something?" Grissom asked as he shut the door to his townhouse.

"No thanks," Sara told him, slipping out of her pea coat. "I'm fine. Unless you want something? Want me to make coffee?"

"Would you like some? I'll make it."

"No, I thought maybe you—"

"No." He too took off his jacket and, taking Sara's coat from her, hung them both in the front hall closet. He turned to find her suddenly behind him, a rare moment when he'd not been aware of her movement. Tentatively he reached out a hand and ran a gentle knuckle along her cheek.

"_That is my home of love; _

_If I have rang'd_

_Like him that travels,_

_I return again_," he intoned softly.

"Which sonnet is that?"

"109."

"It's lovely."

"Sara, do you have any idea how precious you are to me? When I saw you in that room—"

"Shhh—I'm fine, Gil." She reached up and laid her hand along the side of his face. He turned his head and gently kissed her palm, his beard tickling lightly. Then, still holding her gaze, he moved his hands to her shoulders and very softly but deliberately kissed her lips. It wasn't their first kiss, not by a long shot. He'd kissed her for the first time not long after they met, the second time he'd gone to see her in San Francisco. And more recently their relationship had progressed to snuggling on the couch, sharing kisses. But this kiss was different, more reverent, full of promise, and Sara's eyes widened in surprise.

Grissom swept her face with his gaze, looking, searching, finding the answer he sought. Wordlessly he slid his hands from her shoulders, reaching out and instead taking her hands, entwining his fingers in hers. Sara's fatigue fled. Holding fast to her hand, Grissom turned and led Sara up the stairs to his bedroom. There were no words exchanged. No hurry. No hesitation.

Grissom's eyes burned with an intensity Sara had never seen in them before as he slowly and smoothly reached out and unbuttoned her shirt, one button at a time. Sara reciprocated with equal deliberation, pulling his shirttail from his slacks and pushing the shirt off of his shoulders once it was fully unbuttoned.

Silently exploring, she ran her hands across his chest, along his abdomen and around his back before rising up to kiss him deeply. Grissom tugged Sara's shirt down and off of her shoulders, pulling back only enough to unfasten her bra and drop it to the floor.

They reached simultaneously for each other's zippers and smiled as their hands collided. Grissom reached further and undid the snap on Sara's pants. Sara ran her fingers along the erection straining against the fabric of his slacks, eliciting a started gasp that made her laugh. Quickly they divested each other of the rest of their clothes.

Later Sara couldn't remember how she'd gotten from standing in front of Grissom in the shadowy bedroom to lying beside him on the cool, smooth sheets, something she found odd as so much of that evening remained brilliantly clear in her memory. The reverence which gave way to passion and laughter, the prickle of his beard on her most sensitive skin, the mingled male and female scents of the sweat of passion, and the unprecedented utter satisfaction and fulfillment which swept through her as he laid propped above her and slowly slid deep inside for the first time.

Sara was not without experience, but past experiences with sex had left her entirely unprepared for the sheer joy and sense of homecoming brought on by making love with _**him**_. Grissom's eyes reflected the same surprise, amazement and recognition as, with the ease of long familiar lovers, they reached climax simultaneously and slid down the other side. Afterwards, Grissom laid over her momentarily, still joined, sweat slicked, heart pounding, eyes closed, then moved to pull out. Sara stopped him with a touch, and spoke for the first time since that initial gentle kiss in the entry.

"No, please Gil. Don't move. Just—stay."

And gently, holding her close, he rolled them both onto their sides, connected not only by the awareness and recognition that had bound them from their first meeting, but physically as well.

Six months later, when Sara woke in the Yukon to find her hand still tightly grasped in that of the sleeping Grissom, her first reaction was not one of fear that they might have been observed, but gratitude that, how ever hard the road had been, this man had found his way to her.

"Hey, Gilbert…"

"Hmmm?" he mumbled in his sleep.

"I know you're exhausted, but it's dark out. We need to use the lasers."

Later, Sara decided it had probably been Sofia's own belief that she had fired the fatal bullet that had all of them expecting that outcome. Unusually, even Grissom had clearly had some preconceptions about what the results of the experiment would be. But the results were unequivocal. Sofia Curtis could not have fired the bullet which killed Daniel Bell.

The bullet's trajectory showed it had been fired by Jim Brass.

In the end she determined that was probably the better of two possible bad outcomes of the investigation, not that Sara wished any ill on her friend, a man she had come to think of almost as a father figure. However, she knew that Jim would weather the tragedy. Not survive it unscathed, not by a long shot, but survive and go on.

Being the shooter would have ended Sofia's career. If she wasn't fired, she would have quit. And Sara wasn't sure that would be the worst of it. Sofia's mother was a police captain, a strong and determined woman who valued her daughter's career perhaps more than Sofia herself did. That kind of pressure could be difficult to deal with – or to even survive. Not that Sara thought Sofia was particularly suicidal, but there are an awful lot of ways to sabotage your future short of putting a gun in your mouth. And while their current relationship might not have been the closest, Sara certainly did not wish Sofia ill.


	9. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

People, Sara mused, respond to stressors in unique and unpredictable ways. In the aftermath of Nick's kidnapping and rescue Ecklie had restored the graveyard shift, Warrick had gotten married, Hodges had revealed himself to be a team member who truly cared about his colleagues (who ever would have guessed?) and she and Grissom had gotten a dog. Priorities being what they were, Grissom had been laser focused on rescuing Nick, but once Nick was safe, and he had his team – his little family – back together, the dogs Walter Gordon had killed really bothered him. The first time she's awoken to find him standing staring out the window, she thought maybe he'd had a nightmare about Nick, until he turned to her.

"He suffocated one, and vivisected the other. Complete innocents, not involved in what happened to his daughter. What kind of person does that?"

"The same kind who kidnaps a criminologist and buries him underground in a Plexiglas coffin."

"I suppose." But it was obvious the answer didn't satisfy him. With all the horrible things they'd seen people do to people, it wasn't clear to Sara what it was about this particular act that so stuck in his craw, but she was well aware that sometimes it's the littlest thing that makes a situation intolerable. While there's no explaining it, there's no getting around it either. Eventually she concluded that part of what bothered Grissom so much was that Gordon had gotten the dogs at the Humane Society.

"They're supposed to protect the animals, to help them find a better life. Not to hand them over to someone who is going to cut them up while still alive, just to get entrails to use as bait," he tried to explain. It was Tuesday morning, fifteen minutes after walking through the door at the end of a long shift. They were shoulder to shoulder, slumped on the couch, coffee cups in hand, still wound up from work and not nearly ready for sleep, but too tired to do much of anything else. While the night shift had been restored on paper, actually shifting people's work schedules around was taking a bit of time. Plus, Nick was still in the hospital and weeks away from returning to work. Therefore, at least for a little while longer they continued to be off together on Tuesdays and Wednesdays.

"Hey, Gris?""

"Hmmm?"

"What if we went to the Humane Society this morning and picked out a dog? We can't save the two dogs murdered by Gordon, but we can make sure another one is safe and loved."

"I always wanted a dog when I was a kid."

"I know someone who does doggy daycare, open 24-7."

"Gotta love Vegas…"

"And we could put a dog door into the back yard. It's already fenced. Starting as soon as we get everything straightened out, we're going to be back on shifting schedules so that three or four nights a week one or the other of us should be here. Working out the logistics won't be hard. What do you say? Should we go look?"

The old fashioned brindle boxer had been in the last kennel they'd looked in. Not a puppy any more, although not an old dog, he'd been passed over by all the people looking for babies.

"An adult dog is better for us anyway. Look, it says he's house broken, already obedience trained, good with kids, other animals, new people…" Sara read off his information. Grissom watched him thoughtfully. The dog sat and studied him in return.

"My uncle had a Boxer. I've always really liked them." He pondered the dog some more. "I'm not sure he likes us, though."

Sara smiled sadly at him. "That's because you've never been in a situation where you were waiting, hoping for someone to take you home. He's not unfriendly, he's reserved. He's trying not to get his hopes up again, so that they won't be dashed. I've got a feeling about this dog, Grissom. I think this is our dog."

So he'd gone to find an attendant and they'd spent a half hour getting to know the dog. He warmed up to Sara first, but she saw the same recognition she herself had felt the first time she met Grissom reflected in the dog's eyes. "This man is special, and if only someday he thought I was special too…" There was no doubt in her mind that while the dog would love her too, his heart already belonged to Gris.

Grissom filled out the adoption paperwork and paid the fee. Sara walked the dog to the car.

"We need a crate, a seat belt, a bed, a leash and collar, bowls, dog food, a dog door, some toys…" She ticked off a mental list as they drove to Petco.

"I thought you said the logistics would be easy?"

"Easy, I said, not inexpensive."

But Grissom's smile and the frequent glances he cast in the rear view mirror, watching their new companion sitting politely watching out the window as the car rolled down the street belied his complaint.

"What do you think we should name him?" Sara asked. "Something literary? Something entomologic?"

"I already named him," Grissom replied.

"Really?"

"Really."

"And?"

"His name is Hank." And for the first time, Sara realized just how long Grissom could carry a grudge. She had dated paramedic Hank Pettigrew for about fifteen months after Grissom had all but pushed her into his arms, but had broken things off abruptly after learning that Pettigrew was engaged to another woman. It had been her one attempt at a relationship with anyone else since the day she first met Grissom. She caught him watching her, hesitation that had not been in his voice reflected in his eyes. She grinned back at him.

"Not that I don't already know, but—"

"Because he's a son of a bitch," Grissom responded firmly. Sara nodded, laughing softly.

"Okay, Hank it is."

Grissom would look back on that instant as a moment out of time, a minute of perfect happiness: his own dog in the back seat, Sara grinning at him, he himself free to finally let her know how much he hated Hank Pettigrew for hurting her, and for being willing to get involved with Sara before he himself had been. It was one short week later that his world came crashing down around his ears, and more than once he gave thanks for having Sara in his life, and really Hank too, because without her, without them, he wasn't sure how he would have made it through.

Grissom had been in his office and had barely spared any attention to the phone when it rang, picking it up distractedly, continuing to read the National Geographic article he was immersed in.

"Grissom."

"Gil? It's Carl Schmidt." The name pulled Grissom's attention fully from the world of Spotted Hyenas. He and Carl Schmidt had worked together at the LA Coroner's office a million years ago, when they'd both been kids, before Carl had gone to medical school, become a forensic pathologist, and eventually gone to work at the Wayne County Coroner's Office in Detroit. Carl was now back as Chief Medial Examiner for the County of Los Angeles. They'd lost touch over the years, but Grissom considered him a friend. He'd been one of the few people who treated the young entomologist as an equal from the beginning.

"Carl, what can I do for you?"

"Gil, I'm sorry, I've got some bad news. Your mother was found today in her gallery. She suffered a massive coronary. She wouldn't have known what hit her, Gil. I think she was dead before she hit the floor." If Carl kept talking, Grissom didn't hear him. Somehow he managed to utter some sort of pleasantries, thanks for the notification, he'd be in touch with plans, it was nice to hear from Carl, despite the circumstances… and whatever he said seemed to satisfy his friend because after one more expression of sympathy, Dr. Schmidt rang off. Grissom sat dumbly at his desk for a minute, then called Catherine.

"Cath, I'm not feeling very well. You're in charge." He got into his car in the lot and started driving blindly, vaguely intending to head for home, but found himself instead arriving at the crime scene Sara was processing with Greg. Sara took one look at him as he climbed out of the vehicle and put down her kit.

"Greg, I'll be right back."

She hurried over to the truck.

"Gil, what's the matter?"

"A friend from the LA Coroner's office called," he told her. "My mother---" He couldn't say any more, but Sara understood.

"You wait here. I'll be right back."

She strode back to Greg. "Hey, G? I need to go with Grissom. Are you going to be okay finishing up here by yourself?"

"Sure, Sara. Is everything all right?"

"Yeah, it's just fine. All of my evidence is labeled and logged. Make sure it makes it back to the lab, okay?" She flipped him the keys. Greg watched as she made her way back to Grissom's Yukon and slid into the driver's seat.

"Come on. First, let's get you home, then we can decide what we need to do."

Sara made it four blocks from the crime scene before pulling over onto a side street and around a corner, out of sight of any of the cops leaving the scene behind them. Tears had begun running silently down Grissom's face before she'd cleared the parking space, and she couldn't wait any longer to pull him into her arms.

"I know. It's okay," she crooned softly. "Cry all you want. I've got you."

They sat there a long time, not talking, Grissom sobbing on her shoulder as she held him tight. Gradually the sobs slowed as she rubbed his back in gentle circles. Finally he pulled back from her and turned away, looking out the window.

"I'm sorry about that, Sara," he muttered.

She reached out and grabbed his hand tightly, holding on for dear life as he had the first time she'd cried in front of him.

"Sorry for what? Being here for each other? That's what this is all about, isn't it? I love you, Gil, and I'm so sorry about your mom. Are you ready to go home now, or would you like to sit here for awhile?"

He looked back at her sideways, and gave her the ghost of a grateful, yet ruefully sad smile.

"Let's go home, Sara. We need to pack."


	10. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

If Sara had ever been asked to predict how much of a battle it would have been, hypothetically, to get Grissom to let her go with him to make his mother's arrangements and take care of her affairs, she probably would have predicted world war three, but in fact Grissom appeared to take it for granted from the beginning that she would be going with him. And Hank. He seemed surprised when Sara asked about driving versus flying.

"We have to drive. I'm not putting Hank in cargo!" Sara had been assuming he'd want to leave the dog with the sitter.

Sara called Ecklie and let him know she had a family emergency and needed a few days off. Grissom called Catherine and told her he'd be out for the week. It said a lot about the upheaval at the lab that neither asked any questions. Sara and Grissom left as soon as they were packed, pausing only to make sure that all of Grissom's critters were adequately fed and watered before heading out. Sara drove the whole way, initially in heavy silence.

They were passing through Barstow when Grissom spoke.

"Sorry, I'm not being very good company."

"You're kidding, right? Don't worry about me. Or Hank. You just do what you need to do, Bugman."

"For so much of my life, after my dad died, it was just Mom and me. When I was growing up, she was the one person who didn't think I was a freak, you know?"

"I know she was incredibly proud of you."

"She saw you once, you know," Gil told her softly.

Sara stared over at him, surprised. "When?!?"

"Do you remember, that first weekend in San Francisco, my mom swung through town on a buying trip, and I met her for coffee while you were at the conference, and then caught up with you on the wharf?"

"Sure."

"Well, I guess I talked about you a little bit too much, because rather than just heading home when I left, Mom followed me. She wanted to catch a glimpse of the woman who kept popping up in our conversation." He shook his head in remembered amazement. "I'd known you less than 48 hours, and my mom knew…"

"Knew what?"

"That you were it for me."

Described only as a friend, and a new one at that, Sara had piqued the older woman's interest. And she'd been glad she had trailed him to his meeting with Sara. Never had she seen her son gaze at any of his friends the way he did at this lovely young woman. And miracle of miracles, she looked back at him with the same bright light shining in her eyes. She'd said as much to her son later, via TTY.

"I'm far too old for her, Mom."

"She looks like she has maturity beyond her years, Gil. If you're not interested, that's one thing, but don't set up artificial impediments. It's hard enough to find someone to spend your life with. And after all, your father was older than I was. Maybe it runs in the family."

"I told her—about us getting back together. She was really happy, Sara. She liked the look of you, thought we were good together. She'd never stopped asking about you, all this time."

She glanced briefly over at him, curious.

"When?"

"Hmmm?"

"When did you tell her?"

"Ummm, a couple of months ago, I guess. I've been meaning to mention it to you, but I guess it never really came up." He paused, and looked over at her, his eyes caressing her profile. "I'm really glad I told her. I would have hated for her to have died without knowing. But I wish you'd met. You would have liked each other."

And with that, he lapsed back into a silence that lasted the rest of the drive.

Sara followed Grissom's directions from the 10, south on Lincoln Boulevard then west on Venice to a neat little California Craftsman cottage on Linnie Canal.

"You never told me you grew up on the canals!"

"I didn't. We lived further north, on Brooks. My mom bought this place in the early nineties, after her gallery started to take off, back when you could actually afford property in Venice." He unlocked his mother's door and held it open for Sara and Hank, postponing for few seconds more the moment at which he himself had to enter the house.

"What a lovely home!" Sara exclaimed, moving into the living room. She unclipped Hank's leash and he trotted off on a mission of exploration. Grissom took a deep breath and stepped through the door. Sara slipped her overnight bag from her shoulder and looked back at him.

"Would you like some coffee? I'll make a pot."

"That would be great, if you can find any. My mother leaned more towards tea, but usually she kept some coffee around for visitors."

Sara moved into the sunny kitchen. It was a little dated, but tidy and airy, with details in bright yellow, blue and white. She caught sight of a set of breakfast dishes in the sink—the only object she'd so far seen out of place in the house—and was stopped dead by the huge lump in her throat.

"Gris?" she called back to him, "Why don't you check on Hank and take our bags upstairs while I make the coffee?" If seeing the lonely dishes left so casually by a woman who was never coming back to wash them affected her that strongly, she didn't want to see their effect on her son.

She heard her lover head upstairs, found the coffee, started a pot and quickly washed and dried the teacup and cereal bowl. Pouring coffee into two mugs, she followed Grissom up to the second floor. She found him in his mother's orderly bedroom, perched on the neatly made bed, Hank's chin on his knee as he idly stroked the soft, brown head. He didn't look around as she entered, but started speaking after a second.

"It smells like her in here."

Sara sniffed gently. "Smells nice."

"She was always aware of scents, especially after she lost her hearing. It's just hard to believe that she's not going to come walking back from the gallery any minute now, you know?"

Sara sat down next to him, handing him one of the coffee mugs and putting an arm around him. He switched the mug to his other hand and pulled her tightly against his side.

"I know, Baby," Sara replied.

"I've got to call Carl." He made no move to get up.

"Gil, we just drove six hours, the last two mostly stopped in LA rush hour traffic, after putting in nearly a full shift. You've hardly eaten and haven't slept. Hank needs a walk, and then I think we need to get something to eat and to sleep a little. There'll be plenty of time to start making arrangements when we wake up."

He didn't respond initially, and Sara wondered if she'd somehow upset him, but then he nodded wearily and turned his head to kiss her on the forehead.

"I'm going to need you to take care of me while we're here, Sara."

"That's why I'm here."

"What do you say we walk down to the ocean, then find a place to get some food?"

"Sounds like a great plan."

"Are you up for a long walk? There's a place right on the boardwalk almost to Santa Monica I think you'd like. They have a patio, so we can take Hank."

"I think a long walk is just what the doctor ordered. Mind if I take a shower first?"

"Good idea. Want company?"

"Yeah, I do."

Showered and changed, they went along the canals and then across Pacific, down a walk-street to the beach. Heading north on the boardwalk, they walked in silence, in synch, side-by-side. Hank initially cast about a bit on his leash, and they slowed for him, but after awhile he settled in beside them, trotting happily, paying only the slightest attention to the other dogs out on the path.

Figtree's Café was quiet on a weekday, after the breakfast rush. They arrived just early enough to order off of the breakfast menu. Grissom hadn't thought he had an appetite, but one bite into the cornmeal pancakes and his hunger stood up and made itself heard. Sara made equal inroads into her French toast while Hank lapped happily at a bowl of water the waitress brought for him. They ate in a comfortable silence, then walked back up Abbott-Kinney, past endless little galleries, book stores and restaurants.

"You ready for a nap?" Sara asked as he let them back into the house.

"As soon as we feed Hank."

Grissom had taken their bags to the cheery guest room. Neither of them had any desire to sleep in his mother's bedroom, opting instead to use the much smaller but less personal bed across the hall. Sara worried that Grissom would have trouble sleeping, but his exhaustion took over and he was sound asleep in her arms within minutes of hitting the bed. Not long after, she dozed off herself. Hank, waiting patiently on the floor, climbed carefully up on the foot of the bed as soon as he heard their gentle snores.


	11. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

Despite the circumstances, Sara was curious to meet Carl Schmidt. He represented a portion of Grissom's life she knew next to nothing about. The LA County Coroner's Office is located on the campus of the USC medical center. It's twenty miles from Venice; Los Angeles traffic turned it into an hour and a half drive. When they entered the building and gave their names, barely a minute passed before a man in a white lab coat strode out of a set of double doors.

"Gil!" The two men grasped hands and shook warmly. "I'm so sorry about your mother, Gil, but man is it good to see you!"

"It's nice to see you too, Carl." Other than a little thinning of his ginger hair, Schmidt looked just as Grissom remembered him. His friendly, kind and easy-going exterior belied a laser sharp intellect, a rabid curiosity and a wicked sense of humor.

"Come on back to my office. Let's catch up a little, if you have a few minutes?" He turned to Sara and held out a hand.

"You must be Sara Sidle."

"It's nice to meet you, Dr. Schmidt."

"Carl, please. Come on back." He led the way back through the double doors. "Can I get you guys some coffee?"

In the past when Sara had met people from Grissom's past, the interactions seemed to make him uncomfortable, but in Carl's presence, Grissom visibly relaxed and seemed content to talk about the "old days" and listen as his friend shared "Grissom stories" with Sara.

"Of course, you know, we were both kids. This is before I went to medical school even. No way would some wet behind the ears kid have the opportunity to work in a major metropolitan M.E.'s office now, but this was a long time ago. Looking back, it's amazing how much things have changed. This guy though, he was incredible. To this day, I've never known anyone who would chew on a puzzle the way he did—first look at it this way, then that way, and if that didn't solve it then he'd back off and try again from a completely different angle."

Sara smiled at Grissom. "_Some_ things don't change."

"So Gil – at the risk being impolitic, about seven or eight years ago, I ran into you at a conference, and you couldn't stop talking about a young forensics investigator you'd met in San Francisco. I'd never seen you so—anything--about a girl before. I mean, you were talking about how smart she was, and how determined, and yet it didn't feel like a professional interest. Seems to me maybe HER name was Sara…" He looked back and forth between his two visitors.

Grissom squirmed a little in his chair.

"My interest WAS professional, at least in part."

"Yeah," said Sara with a grin. "It only took two years for him to hire me. It took seven for him to ask me out."

"There were—complicating factors," Grissom lamely offered in explanation.

"Jeez, Gil. You were gaga over this girl. It took you seven years to get involved?"

"Openness and intimacy are not my strongest suits, Carl."

At that, Schmidt laughed out loud, nodding his head. "I guess that's a fair enough statement. Hey, do you remember the time I tried to set you up with my girlfriend's cousin? Have you ever told Sara about our double date?"

Grissom shook his head, and Carl turned to Sara. "I guess we must have ordered Calamari, because Gil started talking about the Giant Cuttlefish of Australia before we even got our appetizers. These were a couple of Valley girls, into clothes and purses and pop music. They wanted to be stars. And here Gil was going on about some invertebrate from a place they probably couldn't find on the map. I think they suddenly remembered somewhere they had to be half-way through the salad." He looked over at Grissom. "You still owe me for that one, buddy. I really liked that girl, and I'm not sure we ever went out again." He turned his gaze to Sara, assessing her. Eyes sparkling, she responded with a question.

"Aren't the Australian Giant Cuttlefish the ones that put on those huge flashy aggressive displays between the biggest strongest males, so some of the smallest males change color to look like females, slip in under the fighting to join and mate with the girls and are preferred by the females something like 4:1 over the big dumb bulging-muscle fighting males? They're one of the coolest animals on the planet!" She looked over at Grissom. "I didn't know you were a Cuttlefish fan!"

She turned her attention back to Carl. "These cuttlefish actually mate by the males passing a pouch of spermatophore to the females who then store it for awhile. They're very particular about whom they accept the pouches from to begin with, but then after they've collected them from several males, they actually choose which pouch they want to use to inseminate their eggs." She glanced back at Grissom. "See, even in other species, smart can be sexy."

Schmidt looked from one to the other, shaking his head. "Perfect. Who knew that somewhere there was a woman who was perfect for Gilbert Grissom?"


	12. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

Grissom's mother had been a member of Holy Angels Catholic Church of the Deaf. There was another Catholic church, St. Mark's, a few blocks from her house, but every week she traveled nearly 20 miles to the church she'd help found two decades earlier, a church where her hearing loss was not a handicap. She was obviously a well-known and well-loved member of this community.

Father Tom Schweitzer had tears in his eyes as he spoke with Grissom, sitting in the church's courtyard, making arrangements for the ceremony. They'd started by speaking. Father Schweitzer explained that he'd begun losing his hearing when he was ten and had been deaf for more than twenty years before receiving a cochlear implant a few years earlier. But once Sara offered that she didn't mind if they signed instead, the two men shifted languages. Sara idly watched the silent conversation, struck again by the beauty and expressiveness of American Sign Language, then set off to explore the church.

Although the congregation of Holy Angels was less than twenty years old, it was housed in a lovely eighty year old church, and while the investment of so much time, money and energy in religion mystified Sara, she did find the main sanctuary with its heavy hand-hewn oak floors, low altar, burgundy walls, and etched glass very peaceful. She could see why Gil's mother had been so invested in this unique church.

As Sara sat quietly, letting the hushed tones of the chapel seep into her body, out in the sunlit courtyard, Grissom approached the one topic he'd been worrying about.

"My father was a botanist from Humboldt County. He was not a Catholic and at his request, after he died, his ashes were spread in the sequoias. My mother wanted her ashes to go to the same place. Is this going to cause any problems for you in performing her mass?" Grissom asked Schweitzer.

"You are familiar, obviously, with the Church's position on cremation."

"I am, but I also know that not all diocese are equally comfortable with having cremains present in the church during the mass, and that the church does not support the scattering of remains, but rather dictates that the ashes be buried or entombed. My mother, however, wanted to be with my father, and I'm going to honor her request."

"As a priest what I can say to you is that since 1997 cremains have been allowed at the funeral masses of American catholics. Our church, perhaps more than any other, exists to serve the needs of our members. Of course, we will have no issues with performing your mother's funeral mass, with or without her remains present. I also, as a priest, remind you of the church's position on the scattering of ashes, as you have so clearly articulated. As your mother's friend, however, I know that she has looked forward to being reunited with your father, and if she felt that a part of that involved having her remains spread where he was laid to rest, then you have my full support in that as well."

The mass was held on a sparkling clear unusually cool July Saturday. Like the early morning Sunday services, the memorial was conducted in ASL with English interpretation. The church was overflowing—all 180 seats occupied, and standing room only at the back and sides. The majority appeared to be members of the church community, but there were also neighbors from Venice, friends and customers of her Santa Monica gallery, and long-time family friends who Grissom remembered from his childhood.

Father Schweitzer spoke long and eloquently about the woman who had been his friend for more than two decades. A number of people stood and told funny stories. The music was beautiful, and vibrated through the floor, easily palpable for the hearing impaired.

Grissom made his way to the front and read Shakespeare's Sonnet 73.

"_That time of year thou mayst in me behold _

_When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang _

_Upon those boughs which shake aganst the cold, _

_Bare ruined choirs, where late the sweet birds sang _

_In me thou see'st the twilight of such day _

_As after sunset fadeth in the west; _

_Which by and by black night doth take away, _

_Death's second self, that seals up all in rest. _

_In me thou see'st the glowing of such fire, _

_That on the ashes of his youth doth lie, _

_As the death-bed whereon it must expire, _

_Consumed with that which it was nourished by. _

_This thou perceivest, which makes thy love more strong, _

_To love that well which thou must leave ere long."_

His voice remained steady as he recited, but Grissom's eyes glistened with unshed tears as he made his way back down the aisle to Sara's side. She took his hand tightly in hers as soon as he sat back down, her own eyes equally wet.

Sara returned home first, flying back to Las Vegas the day after the service, unable to extend her leave any longer. She left Hank with Grissom, who still had to sort through his mother's house, settling her affairs.

"What are you going to do with the house, Gil?" she'd asked after they returned from the memorial and subsequent reception. He'd rubbed a tired hand across the back of his neck.

"I don't know, Sara. I keep going back and forth. I don't have any reason to keep a place in Los Angeles—it's a long way from home to manage a rental property. But it's a great house, in a great place. I don't know that I'm going to want to retire in Vegas."

"Really? I know how much you love the desert." One of the many delights of their relationship was learning to appreciate the beauty of the desert as seen through his eyes.

"But I also miss the ocean, and I know you do too. This wouldn't be a bad place to retire, would it? I like Venice. It's a real community, and reminds me a bit of the Bay Area." He paused and looked into her eyes. "What would you do?"

"I think—I wouldn't make a decision yet."

"That's probably pretty good advice. Thanks. Not just for that, but—for coming, for being with me for all of this." He paused again, and his weariness flooded his eyes. "I know it's early, but I need a nap. Any chance you're interested in joining me?"

"You bet. This has been a long day…"

"It's going to be very lonely here without you, you know."

"Lonely in Vegas too, Baby. Short of coming out in the open, though, I don't see any way to stay longer."

"I know. And I'll be back home soon. Hank and I will."

"But for now—let's go to bed, shall we?"

It took Grissom another two weeks to go through all of his mother's papers, settling her affairs and getting the house ready to rent. He called Ecklie and extended his leave. Always an organized woman, his mother had her finances in good order, and her accountant helped Grissom make the arrangements she had laid out in her will. Going through her house was more difficult for him. Sara had helped pack her clothing before she left. Choosing, at his request, a couple of the sweaters he remembered his mother wearing to bring home with her, Sara distributed her wonderful hats and scarves amongst her closest friends, and boxed up the rest to be donated to the Holy Angels thrift store. She'd also gone through the kitchen, dividing the family pieces and useful gadgets Grissom would bring back with him from items to deliver to the Salvation Army.

Grissom had tackled the library while she completed these tasks, initially trying to be very selective, until Sara suggested that he just bring everything he wasn't sure he didn't want home with him, where they could go through them later.

Her furniture and art posed a challenge for him. A few family pieces (and the arm chair Hank had claimed as his own) Grissom arranged to have shipped, while others he put in storage, in anticipation of perhaps refurnishing the house with them some day. Sara had chosen several of the pieces of art to have sent to Las Vegas, while Grissom had selected two or three others. His mother's gallery, surprisingly, created the least difficulty. One of his mother's closest friends had worked for her in the gallery for years, and approached Grissom after the service with an offer to buy it outright. He'd already had the business appraised, and the deal she offered was very fair.

"I have a little money left me by my husband, but working there has kept me young and active. We've had such fun, you know. I miss your mom terribly. As long as I'm there, and keep it running, I know I'll have a bit of her there with me as well."

But finally the house was cleaned out, a property manager recommended by Father Schweitzer hired, the papers all signed. And, with a last, long look behind him, Grissom locked the door, loaded Hank in the car, and finally headed for home.


	13. Chapter 11

Chapter 11 

As it turned out, Grissom returned to work on Nick's first day back. Everything happened seemingly at once—back in Vegas, back at the lab, Nick at work, the team reunited. In some ways it felt as if the last year had never happened, in others… He strode into the break room and paused, casting his eyes about, reveling in having his whole team together. Sara, of course, had been aware of him the second he walked in, though she had done nothing more to acknowledge his presence than study him carefully. Catherine, Nick, Warrick and Greg were in the middle of some funny story and it took a minute for them to notice his presence.

"Welcome back, Nicky. How are you doing?"

"Grissom! I'm fine, man. Thanks. Nice to see you, though. It's good to be back."

"All right, everyone, grab your kits and load up. We've got a trailer park fire. Brass is waiting for us at the scene."

Sara wasn't sure how much Grissom had said to Catherine, but the two had been friends for a long time, and whether or not he'd told her what had happened, she clearly knew something was up with him. The younger investigator stuck by Grissom's side, nearly touching, providing as much physical support through her proximity as she could as the team strode up to the crime scene tape, and it occurred to her that Catherine was doing the same on his other side, casting quick glances as if to assess his status, far more attentive to him than Nick.

Clearly Catherine decided that whatever was up had Grissom off his game, because she began giving assignments as soon as they arrived on the scene, leaving only Sara and Nick without assigned tasks. Sara picked up where she left off, and the five members of Grissom's team went smoothly to work without him uttering a word. Instead he walked straight up to the decimated trailer where Brass was waiting.

"We have two victims. It seems the girl is Selena March. She owns the trailer," the detective informed them.

"What about the male?" Grissom queried.

"Nothing yet."

Nick studied a piece of debris on the floor of the trailer. "This is a piece of the roof right here. Fiberglass and particle board. You know, these things were not built to last.

"They were built to burn," Grissom observed.

"This place is totaled. Bed's collapsed."

"My money's on meth lab," volunteered the nearby Officer Metcalf, the Crime Lab team's least favorite LVPD officer (although since Nick's kidnapping, the queasy stomached Michaels was giving him a run for the title).

"You know, Metcalf, just because someone lives in a trailer park doesn't mean they're a meth cook," Sara retorted. Her last run in with the cop, when he had insulted a group of overweight witnesses who'd come to the police department to give statements and DNA samples, was still on her mind.

"You guys are a pain in the ass, you know that?""

A hint of the old twinkle in his eye, Grissom responded. "Get used to it, pal."

Grissom found being back at work not only easier than he had feared, but also soothing in an odd way. Surrounded by his entire team, completing familiar tasks, working on the puzzle posed by the scene, apparently functioning well enough not to arouse anyone's curiosity, he began to relax and settle into the job. He was acutely aware that Sara was there, watching out for him and for Nick should either need anything. He couldn't imagine anyone he'd rather have watching his back. Ironically, the need to watch out for Nick was helpful too. It took his mind off of California.

A call came in from the PD, 419 off Industrial Boulevard. Feeling much more himself, he contacted Catherine with the information.

"Would you like to handle it?"

"So you get the team back together only to break us apart again. What kind of perverse game are you playing here, Gil?"

"I'm not a pervert," he intoned.

"Yeah, I'll cover it. I'm taking Warrick."

The night all in all had been a satisfying one. Three separate cases, all intriguing, all solved. Nick seemed to be as glad as Grissom to be back in harness. Sofia Curtis showed up unexpectedly, newly hired by LVPD after five months working as a detective in Boulder City. There had been something up between Catherine and Warrick, and while he hadn't been sure, his guess was that it had something to do with the gold band on Warrick's left ring finger. Grissom had never been sure just how far Catherine and Warrick's relationship had gone, but there was frequently a tension between them even someone as oblivious as he could be could not miss. His team were professionals, though, and he figured that whatever it was, they'd work it out. Most of all, he'd enjoyed working side-by-side with Sara, watching her work, relishing her sharp mind, savoring that which had originally attracted him to her. And Grissom realized that he too would be all right.


	14. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12**

Sitting in his office the following November, having just signed off on the report detailing how one friend had shot a fellow officer, clearing another friend of any wrongdoing, Grissom mused over the changes of the last two years. Twenty-four months earlier he'd been alone, as big a gulf separating him from Sara as there had been at any point since they met. He'd given one of Sara's cases to Catherine, in some part at least to drive Sara away.

It had been a low point for him, personally and professionally. He'd gotten away for a few days around Thanksgiving and had gone to LA to spend it with his mother—their last holiday together, he realized sadly. The nearly six months since her death had eased the dagger of pain which came when he thought of her to a dull ache—most of the time. And those other moments, the times he woke from a dead sleep rigid with loss, Sara was there to wrap her arms around him and hold him until he relaxed and slid back into sleep.

He was now the eldest generation, the last Grissom, at least of his family. But he was no longer alone. For the first time since leaving home, the first time, in many ways, since his Dad, that quiet, gentle, thoughtful botanist, died when he was nine, he was part of a family. Work was no longer his greatest, or only, joy, and while that transition might sometimes be a rocky one, he wouldn't have had it any other way. He let his mind wander though one or two of his favorite recent memories. Like the previous week, when he'd looked up from the witness box while testifying in rebuttle against once respectable entomologist, now perjuring sell-out Mark Thayer to see Sara slipping in to the back row of the courtroom galley, throwing him a quick smile. She'd just closed an emotionally grueling case of her own, and he knew she had to be exhausted, but there she was, looking bright as a daisy, offering him moral support. She'd exited when the judge adjourned for the day, but he knew he'd find her waiting in the courthouse corridor.

It was with that on his mind that he'd been heading for the doorway when the Undersheriff approached him.

"Grissom. Great work up there."

"Actually, the work was done in the lab."

"When I took this job, I heard a lot of things about you. If you ever need a favor, if I can help you in any way..."

"You know Sheriff, you could help me. I'm late delivering my team's personnel evaluations."

"I'll tell Ecklie. He'll backdate your cost-of-living adjustments."

"Thank you."

"So, Grissom, I'm not sure of your ambitions, but if you're interested in taking on more responsibility, maybe a promotion, I'd be glad to pass..."

"You know," Grissom interrupted him, "Oscar Wilde once said, 'Ambition is the last refuge of failure.' I'm fine. Thanks." And with a smile on his face, thinking how much better he was than 'fine,' he had headed out to join Sara.

Or the perfect rhythm he'd felt back in September, as on so many other occasions, processing a taxi found on Oakey Street, its driver found dead slumped over the steering wheel with a gunshot wound to his neck. Processing a crime scene with Sara was different from anything else in his professional experience. It was like growing an extra set of eyes and hands, with the addition of Sara's large fund of knowledge and sharp insight. Their brains worked in synch, as one, just out loud, the way Sofia used to process. But they didn't have to explain their thought processes, just share their observations. The rest they both understood. Grissom knew his team recognized that Sara and he worked as extensions of each other. It was evident in the way they interacted with the pair, in the way Catherine directed the activities of everyone else on the team, but almost never included Sara. She assumed Sara already knew what he wanted her to do.

And then there had been the time just a month ago when he'd slipped in while Sara was processing the Copeland kitchen after a body had been unceremoniously dumped in their backyard, their dog murdered and their pantry ransacked. While waiting for Catherine, Grissom had seen Brass enter the kitchen and reemerge after a brief look; he decided to touch base with Sara himself.

"Tonight we're both off." He spoke from the doorway.

"Hmmm," she acknowledged, without looking away from the fingerprint she was lifting.

"Do you have plans?"

"What do you have in mind?" she asked, her voice scratchy with fatigue.

"I thought maybe we could pick up Hank and stuff for a picnic, drive out somewhere—Lake Mead, Red Rock Canyon, Blue Diamond Road--somewhere away from city lights, and star gaze."

She turned her head and eyed him with interest.

"Will there still be meteors?"

"The Orionid shower doesn't actually peak until the 21st, so tonight ought to be even better than last night."

"Don't tell my supervisor, but on the way back to the lab from my 429 last night, I pulled over to the side of the road and watched for a little while."

His eyes caressed her face, remembering his own musings while pausing to watch the skies. Staring up into the vastness of space, letting his soul fill with the sheer beauty and grandeur of the night desert and the shooting stars, he'd celebrated the joy which had infused him since letting Sara into his life, into his bed, so that he was able to wake up each afternoon gazing at her face. Without asking, he suddenly knew that they'd stopped to look at the sky at the same time last night, sharing the same thoughts.

"That sounds good, Gris."

"I'd rather stargaze with you than Brass any day." Grissom gave her a quirk of a smile then moved out to look for Catherine in the back yard, leaving a perplexed Sara staring after him, pondering his cryptic remark.

"Gris?" The voice tore him from his memories. He'd been oblivious to Sara leaning against the doorframe and wondered idly how long she'd been watching him, and if she had any idea of the direction of his musings.

"Hmmm?"

"I've finished cataloguing and boxing the last of the evidence. Anything you need before I get out of here?'

He looked at her, contemplating.

"Who else is still here?"

"I think everyone's here, tying up loose ends. Anyone check out with you?"

"No." He paused. "What do you think about taking the team to breakfast after all?"

She considered, and her desire for the promised and much anticipated game of fetch and then bed warred with her recognition of how long it had been since the team had engaged in that particular ritual, and how tough this case had been on all of them, how tough the last year had been, both physically and emotionally.

"I think—good idea. Want me to round up the guys?"

"Sure. Spread the word, then carpool to the diner with me, would you?" His eyes reflected her own desire for at least a couple of minutes alone together.

"Okay. Meet you back here in five?" He nodded and she headed out to find the rest of the team.

Half an hour later, Sara sat back in the booth and looked around at her colleagues, her friends. They were gathered at their favorite table, ordering plates full of eggs, pancakes, fruit, toast, hash browns, and bacon. Exhaustion radiated from all of them – exhaustion and the added grief from knowing that a friend of all of theirs had killed a fellow officer.

The grief would burrow its way into their hearts, until it found a place where it would live, becoming a part of them forever. It was another of the experiences that helped form the people each of them had become, the experiences which fueled their cynicism, and their determination to stand up for the victims. And yet there was also an air of celebration at the table.

They'd all been through so much, but they'd come through it, through it together, and they'd all come out the other end in one piece. She cast her eyes over Catherine and Warrick, shoulder to shoulder, laughing together. Whatever stresses Warrick's unexpected wedding had placed on their relationship appeared to have been resolved. Nick and Greg were joking around at the end of the table. She sat next to Grissom, knees touching, although his attention too was on the others. He watched quietly, with a tired satisfaction.

Sara knew he ached for Jim Brass—they'd been colleagues and friends for years—but this breakfast was not about Brass, it was about the team, and the team was all here. They'd made it through another really tough case, and here they were, at the table, this family Grissom had created. The next day maybe they had to be back at work, back to start over again, but today, they were here. Sara was at his side; their relationship was strong. He missed his mother, but the worst period of mourning was over. And he had his guys. He glanced over and caught Sara watching him, her lips quirked in a small, private smile. He smiled back at her.

"Sara, we should do this more often."

"Yeah, Gris. We should."

FIN


	15. Author's addendum

Author's addendum:

I'm such an idiot—I forgot to thank my three AMAZING betas. CSIGeekFan, Neener and Firefly, you are all awesome!! All of these stories are SO much better than they would have been without your input. I've worked with "real" editors, and they don't hold a candle to the care and insight with which you do your analysis. So, belatedly—Thanks.


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